We Need a New Term for This

A was crabby, the bus driver was doing that annoying driving-slow-so-we-don't-catch-up-to-the-bus-in-front-of-us thing, the temperature was above freezing, so I got off the bus a few blocks early.

A promptly fell asleep, as he has been doing a lot lately. (Note to self: Tell husband to confront daycare people about getting baby to nap more.) Despite the fact that I am doing all the carrying either way, there is something about a sleeping baby on your chest that feels heavier than an awake one. At these times, he's a dead weight.

Except you really don't want to use the words dead and baby in the same thought, do you?

Come Here Often?

In my previous post, I may have implied that the baby was preventing me from walking in the cold and dark that is February. In truth, of our little family of three (five if you count Luca and Oz, the heat-seeking cats who crowd us out of bed every night), A is the most equanimous in the face of freezing temperatures.

With the later sunset, a clear sky and a temperature slightly above freezing this evening, I thought we could brave the walk home after work. A few blocks in, it was clear A wasn't having it -- he was tired, cranky, in need of a nap an hour previously. I sang a few rounds of Doe, a Deer, and he was out.

(Tangentially: why can I only keep one or two songs at the ready at any given time? Lately, we've had a lot of Doe, a Deer; She'll Be Comin' 'Round the Mountain, complete with the "kill the old red rooster" line which is a little shocking, but absolutely necessary to the sense of the song; and the Wheels on the Bus, god help me, a song I swore I'd never sing to my children after suffering through it with my younger nieces and nephews, but which turns out to be a crowd pleaser.)

I kept going, despite the sleeping baby, through Madison Square Park, past the Shake Shack that had no line -- I could have had my daily limit of delicious sodium, no waiting -- past several snowmen of the three-lump variety. Then there was this duo, delicately carved, lounging, enjoying the twilight.

The Great Flood of Aught Seven

It's hard to be an Excellent Walker in August, particularly the hot August we've been having. But I had no choice but to hoof it to work today, since all the subways were shut down after the three-inches-in-an-hour of rain we had this morning. By the time I got to the office, sweaty and on my way to a sunburn, I was in no mood for the cheery greeting I got from the receptionist, who, on a normal day has a problem getting here as early as 10am, so who is she to be all "I'm at work before you" on me?

People are complaining that the MTA should be better prepared for these situations (apparently many of the water pumps date from the 1930s, though I can't find a source for that), and I guess they should be. I think it's unrealistic, though, to expect a fully modernized system when that system is over 100 years old, operates 24/7, and transports millions of people a day. If you've tried to take the subway on the weekend, you know that they are always working on it. There's only so much they can do, though, without shutting the whole thing down. With that kind of daily use, they might as well be bailing water out of a sinking ship with a teaspoon.

What I do think is possible is a better communications system, both in terms of the hardware in the stations and the updates on the website, and getting instructions to the MTA workers who are -- rightly -- interrogated by commuters when something is wrong. All of those things failed this morning, and are still in failure mode at 2:45pm. The best information I got was from the media, who had dispatched reporters to various sites to, you know, report what was happening. Considering how likely it is that we'll have a true emergency in the subway one of these days -- i.e., a terrorist attack -- and that it's been six years since we've put urban terrorism on the top of our "to worry about a lot" list, you'd think we'd have at least made some progress there. You would, however, be wrong.

Two Feet

I was almost killed yesterday.

That's a little dramatic. What really happened was a chunk of ice from Friday night's storm slid off a building on Lexington Avenue just as I was walking past, and missed me by only two feet. It was about the size of a basketball, one that was completely flattened by its landing. Thud.

Whenever I almost get hurt like this -- and maybe the ice wouldn't have killed me, just given me a very bad headache -- my immediate reaction is one of shaky relief. Then I think: Thank God I didn't die in such a dumb way.

I know, dead is dead, and none of us want to die any other way than in our sleep at a very old age. But the idea of dying in a way that's so completely random, so governed by just one step here or three seconds delay there, feels ridiculous. Wasteful. Ignominious. And yet, the opportunities for that kind of death in New York are infinite.

But despite the ice, I kept walking up Lexington, albeit further away from the building line. It was a nice day for a walk, and if I'd gotten on the bus you just know that would have been the day the driver couldn't brake in time to miss the taxi turning in front of it. Bam.

What Will Never Cease to Amaze Me

I've reconciled myself to the fact that most smokers don't seem to regard their cigarette butts as trash, but instead throw them on the sidewalk or in the street when they've taken their last puff. (Though I was incredibly touched recently, when out with some guys from work I discovered that they'd all taken up smoking -- that wasn't the touching part; they were all over-stressed from working late nights and weekends -- and when they were done with their cigarettes, they each of them walked to the nearest trash can, stubbed it out, and put it in.)

I'm even over the fact that people spit their gum out on the sidewalk, leaving it to be stepped in by the next person who walks by. The black blobs the size of a Oreo you see on every sidewalk, street and subway platform? Those are all from people spitting out their gum. Don't ever contemplate how many there are; on an average block there are hundreds. If I were capable of being amazed by this, I would be amazed that a) so many people chew gum in the first place, and b) that so many people think it's okay to spit it out where they stand rather than wait to get to a trash can, of which there is one on practically every street corner. Oh, you say you have a job interview in this building in the middle of the block, and you're worried there won't be a place to throw out your gum before you get up to reception? That's what the tissue in your pocket is for. Or the corner torn from one of the five extra copies of your resume you brought with you, which, I can assure you, no one in that office building will want to see.

But I'm, uh, over that. No, the thing that will never cease to amaze me is that smokers, when they have taken their last puff will not only throw the butt on the sidewalk, but fling it out to the side, or behind them (as happened to me on my walk to work today, and yes, I realize that not everyone does this), still lit.

Don't mind me, or my coat, or my hand, or my EYE, Mr. Smoker Man. You just get that butt away from you as fast and as far as you can.